


The Cabinet Particulier

by iberiandoctor (jehane18)



Category: French History RPF, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Political RPF - France 19th c.
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bath Houses, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Caning, Cock Rings, Crack Treated Seriously, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Play, Handcuffs, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Multiple intimate secretaries, Office orgies, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Swing, Spreader Bars, The Cabinet Particulier, The French Civil Service, The Paris Police Prefecture Soap Opera, The Punish me M. le Préfet Club, Watercolours, office politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>...This is for the "Punish me M. le Préfet" Club. You know who you are.</i>
</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. The Confidence of Secretaries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Firestorm717](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/gifts), [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts), [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> _...This is for the "Punish me M. le Préfet" Club. You know who you are._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gisquet is persuaded to hire a second secretary.

Henri Gisquet did not consider himself a particularly demanding Prefect. Why, his yoke was tender, and the burdens he placed on his subordinates were so light his colleagues with the national government must surely be commenting upon this behind his back.

As such, he was astounded when he returned from luncheon with the sub-prefect of the 1st arrondissement one day to find his confidential secretary, Jules-Ernest, in tears at his desk.

Ernest was crying quite prettily, long-lashed blue eyes wet and appealing, the redness only enhancing his retroussé nose. When Gisquet entered the office he just cried harder. 

Gisquet stroked the golden curls possessively.

"My pet, what is it now?"

"Oh, my Lord! Forgive me. But your scheduling is so challenging. I am but a simple man, and it is so difficult to keep track of your meetings with politicians, and your social calendar, and that of your protégés? And the list of potential protégés keeps growing longer! Random officers keep writing to me with their portfolios and sending to me sketches of their better profiles, I need to keep all this correspondence properly filed and labelled ... And M. Chabouillet keeps glaring at me in the corridors as if he thinks I am some silly nincompoop."

"Nonsense," said Gisquet. "Chabouillet is just ... sizing you up for a potential social meeting of his own, that's all."

Ernest sniffled, and Gisquet sighed. The others would think he was going soft, but what else did one have an intimate secretary for if one could not indulge him from time to time? 

"Would it help you ease your burdens, my pet, if you were to have someone else to share them?"

The young man instantly stopped crying. His eyes were wide and innocent. "Would you do that for me? My Lord?"

Gisquet sighed again. "Apparently so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Firestorm717](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firestorm717) : _Prefect’s Secretary: In addition to the Secretary General, which was a powerful political position in its own right, the Prefect of Police often employed a secretaire intime du Préfet, which literally translates to “intimate secretary of the Prefect.” Of all the almanacs I studied from 1807 to 1833, the only Prefect who had multiple individuals in this capacity was M. Gisquet: M. Nay was the secretaire intime, chef, and M. Nabon de Veaux was the sous-chef. Take that as you will in your head-canons._
> 
> Well, then.


	2. An Appropriate Time-Slot For Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chabouillet is persuaded to sign off on the creation of the Cabinet particulier.

Chabouillet was surprised when the requisition papers arrived on his desk, as was indeed the custom for all administrative matters relating to the Prefecture. He took even more than his usual care in reviewing the requisition, paying particular attention to the footnotes and supporting documents. 

The nerve of the man! Surely the duties of the Prefect of Police did not require _two_ confidential secretaries, let alone the creation of a separate Cabinet particulier? 

He had to hand it to M. le Préfet, though, he knew how to ensure that paperwork was in order. He had even had some minor functionary from the Treasury assist him to draw up a budget for the new Cabinet, although one could construct an actual antechamber papered in gold-leaf and strewn with pillows of Utrecht velvet with this astronomical provisioned amount.

When he had read the file from cover to cover, he made sure his coiffure was immaculate, that the lines of his blue frock coat hung just so, and rose from his chair to make the necessary enquiries of Gisquet.

The Prefect's office was in the main wing of the old building, linked to the Secretariat by a long hallway flanked with old portraits of past kings and queens and a more recent one of Louis-Philippe I himself. Chabouillet was pleased to be accompanied by the brisk and satisfying click of his elegant boot-heels across the polished marble floor.

Gisquet's confidential secretary M. Nay was sitting at his desk in the Prefect's outer office, pushing some papers about. The slender, golden-haired boy seemed barely old enough to shave, let alone be employed in a secretarial function in the Prefecture. Still, Chabouillet supposed it was never too early to start in service, provided it was the right kind of service.

"M. le Secretaire! Oh! What a surprise. I do not believe you have an appointment? Unless this is something I overlooked ..." 

M. Nay fumbled with a very large document, which appeared to be a desk calendar of some kind, and bore someone's rather crooked schoolboy penmanship.

Chabouillet neatly intercepted this calendar, and took note of the following appointments: 

_2 pm: servicing of M. le Préfet._

_3 pm: interview for secretaire (sous-chef)._

_4 pm: massage at Rue Barbette._

"Oh dear! It is almost 2 pm," Chabouillet said. "Might I enquire as to whom M. le Préfet expects to extend him such services at this time?"

"You may not," M. Nay began, hotly, and then remembered himself: "...I mean, I am not at liberty to say, M. le Secretaire."

My, the boy was delicious! Chabouillet made a mental note to himself to explore that feisty red mouth at the earliest opportunity. 

"I will let M. Gisquet know about your commendable discretion," he said, allowing his voice to drop to a seductive purr. M. Nay shuddered, and Chabouillet took the opportunity of this distraction to slip into Gisquet's offices unimpeded.

Gisquet was clearly readying himself for his 2 pm servicing, because he had doffed his embroidered frock-coat and his cravat was undone, exposing the strong lines of his throat. There was a meaningful bulge in the front of his satin breeches which Chabouillet would have wagered was a welcome for someone else.

Again, he had to hand it to his superior, because Gisquet did not look particularly surprised to be interrupted by the Secretary and Head of the 1st Bureau in this fashion.

"M. le Secretaire. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Chabouillet looked pointedly at his superior's state of undress and said, "I have clearly encountered you at an inopportune time, M. le Préfet. Perhaps you would prefer that I returned after your 3 pm interview?" 

Gisquet raised his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose you could stay for the interview, if you really wanted to. Am I to understand that you are here to discuss that matter with me? I see you are clutching my requisition in your hand, together with, for some reason, my personal calendar."

"Yes," said Chabouillet. "Funny thing. Your little pet could not say whom he had pencilled in for 2 pm, which I find inexcusable in an intimate secretary. If you would allow me, perhaps I should chastise him."

"Perhaps you should," Gisquet said, innocently. "I am afraid poor Ernest's duties are very pressing. Which is why I believe employing a second secretary would be desirable. Particularly if we select a candidate whom you might find suitable as well, Andre."

Chabouillet considered this. Ordinarily, he was quite fervent about the grandest strictures of the law, but what was the harm in bending the rules somewhat in mutually beneficial circumstances? Assuming they could find sufficient duties for such a second secretary, of course.

"Allow me to show you the portfolio of the candidates we have shortlisted," Gisquet said, and spread the watercolours out on his majestic table. Chabouillet craned his head to look. Unsurprisingly, the boys depicted were comely; more surprisingly, they were unclothed: one was dark-haired and angelic, another was as blond and blue-eyed as Jules-Ernest, and there was the third, a very tall lad with a thick head of russet hair, and between his legs he was -- apparently -- similarly and alluringly adorned in the same hue. 

"Hmm. And which of these candidates are coming at 3 pm?" he enquired.

"I must say I rather expected to be coming _myself_ ," Gisquet said, slyly. "And you also, if you would so permit?"

Chabouillet considered the picture of the red-headed boy. There was something feral about his face, something accommodating about his derriere, that put him in mind of his favourite protégé. It was not entirely appropriate to think of Javert under these circumstances, focused as he needed to be on this administrative matter at hand, and to consider this athletic and obviously enterprising youngster on his own merits. 

Besides, if he approved of the provisioned budget, Gisquet could build an actual Cabinet antechamber that was large enough to accommodate several protégés. Simultaneously.

"I bow to the superior wisdom of M. le Préfet," he drawled. "Clearly, he has foreseen my own needs before I could even articulate them myself."

"Excellent!" said Gisquet. "I am so glad we see eye to eye on this matter. Now, could you be so kind as to open my door and summon my chief intimate secretary?"

Chabouillet crossed noiselessly to the door and jerked it open; Jules-Ernest Nay tumbled into the room, clearly unprepared for this uncovering of his hitherto undetected spying activities. 

He sprawled in a graceful tangle of limbs at Chabouillet's feet. His cravat had come loose, his red mouth hung open in surprise, he looked up at Chabouillet with huge, wet, apprehensive eyes. 

Well, it _was_ 2 pm. Time for servicing to commence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Firestorm717](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firestorm717) : _I think I *may* have found the first name of M. Nabon de Veaux. It’s a little confusing, since his surname is often written Nabon Devaux, but he’s introduced in the Gisquet court transcripts as M. Jules Nabon Devaux, the chef de bureau et du cabinet de M. le prefet de police. I poked around in the almanacs a bit, and in 1837, a man with that surname is listed as chef de bureau of the Cabinet particulier. Coincidence? I doubt it. The way I see it, Gisquet’s “private room” became an official bureau, and our dear second-in-command intimate secretary was promoted to its chief! (Another boy, M. Pinel, took over as the new secretaire intime). He’s listed at the address 52, rue des Petites-Ecuries in 1848._
> 
> Your wish is my command. (Hopefully he was a redhead.)


	3. One Can Leave One's Hat On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert would not like Jules-Ernest's hat.

Inspector Javert held himself above the fashions of the day. He took pride in the sharp creases of his dark blue uniform, the buttons rubbed carefully to an appropriate sheen, the buckled leather stock that ensured correct posture, the polished boots, the irreproachable angle of his hat. All policemen should be so appropriately dressed. Why, even his patron, M. Chabouillet, in his position as Secretary and Head of the 1st Bureau of the Paris police, wore the uniform with pride.

As such, he was particularly disapproving of how the men in the Prefect's office attired themselves. He appreciated that not all civil servants could aspire to be policemen, and it was unfortunate that they did not have the honour of clothing themselves in that revered uniform. However, this did not mean that it was at all proper to come to the office in the day's fashions, clothed like dandies in frilly silks and gay colour and unseemly wide-brimmed hats.

He now glared at the prime example of this trend: M. Nay, who styled himself M. le Préfet's _secretaire intime (chef)_ , sitting primly at his desk in the outer office of the Prefect's official chambers.

In the austere surroundings of the main building of the Prefecture, the panelled wooden walls and heavy furniture, the grand arched ceiling, the severe black-and-white marble of its polished floors, all speaking of the solemn gravitas of their high calling, the blond, be-ringleted young man was attired in the following garments: (1) a frock coat of a bright red hue, with a peplum that flared at the waist, (2) a waistcoat of a paler shade of red with the same cut, (3) a frilly white shirt that had even frillier cuffs, (4) a silky purple cravat with shiny embroidery, (5) taffeta breeches, (6) boots that were improbably also purple in colour, and (7) a hat for which there was really no excuse.

Not that Javert was looking, of course.

M. Nay looked rather crossly up at Javert from under the curling brim of item no. (7). "Is there something the matter with my hat?" he enquired.

To Javert's ears, the young man's voice sounded hoarse from overuse. Perhaps the shiny purple cravat was interfering with his speech somewhat. "I note that M. le Préfet countenances that you would wear it indoors," he said. Javert's own hat, of course, was doffed and he held it stiffly under his cane arm.

"M. le Préfet likes my hat," M. Nay said, peevishly. "In any case, I'm afraid you will have to wait a moment longer, M. l'Inspecteur. He is still busy within with M. Chabouillet and... and the others."

Javert raised his eyebrows at this. M. Chabouillet's note had asked him to present himself at 4 pm at the Prefect's offices, it gave no further details as to the meeting or the service he was required to perform. Just the other week, he had been asked to give a briefing to M. le Préfet regarding the Les Halles robberies that had been plaguing the district. He had assumed this afternoon's meeting was related, but perhaps he was wrong.

He became gradually aware of rhythmic sounds of banging and thumping from within the office, and he heard someone laugh in a low voice. This went on for several minutes, and then the banging noises stopped.

"What is going on within," he began to ask, when the polished wooden door to the Prefect's office swung open and two workmen in rough clothes emerged, carrying a long ladder and various paint cans and poles and tool-boxes. They were followed by a smaller, better-dressed fellow with his arms filled with bales of silk and brocade, and a boy weighed down with brushes and a can of glue.

The unmistakable tones of his patron wafted out of the office in the workmen's wake. "Is Inspector Javert there? Kindly send him in, Ernest."

"You heard M. le Secretaire," M. Nay sniffed. Javert put aside his surprise at M. Chabouillet's use of the boy's first name, and strode into the office at his patron's summons.

M. le Préfet's offices were very large, the size of various conference rooms taken together, much larger than M. Chabouillet's own rooms. Marble tiles extended across the floor in black and white squares with inlaid lines of gold, oil paintings of Prefects past hung on the panelled walls. The desk was magnificent, made from heavy carved wood, standing on clawed gilt legs before a gilt-framed window. 

The Prefect himself was sitting on a brocade armchair behind the desk. His embroidered frock coat, which was not a bit frivolous or overly fashionable, was of an appropriately grand dark green hue, and matched the green of his sharp eyes. He was hatless, his dark gold hair not yet showing any grey.

M. Chabouillet was leaning against the front of that desk. His pressed uniform was immaculate. Like Javert, he had his hat under his arm. His own eyes were as commanding and as kind as always, his handsome face in its customary neutral lines under thick, silver-streaked hair.

To the far side of this tableau was a large cordoned-off area, over which a very big piece of rough canvas was draped. It appeared as if wall partitions were being erected, as if the marble was being removed in favour of thick carpet, and as if strange equipment which Javert could not immediately identify was being installed.

"Welcome, M. l'Inspecteur," M. le Préfet said. "As you can no doubt see, with your finely-honed powers of observation, I am having some work done to my rooms."

"As M. le Préfet pleases," Javert said. Upon closer inspection, the various pieces of equipment appeared to largely be made from metal and wood: one item included a bench padded in velvet, another seemed to be modelled after a medieval rack, a third ended in shackles of some kind. On the far wall, only partially obscured by the canvas, there was a half-constructed row of hooks, upon which someone had hung a flogger, some clamps, and a series of canes of varying lengths. Javert frowned, not disapprovingly: perhaps M. le Préfet was looking to conduct an experiment in modern interrogation techniques. 

Javert then realised that not all the workmen had left the Prefect's rooms. One man remained, standing to one side of the canvas sheet, his head bowed in a passive attitude. He wore rather better clothes than the other workmen, and he appeared rather taller, almost the same height as Javert himself.

"I am also in the midst of installing a _Cabinet particulier_ ," M. le Préfet said; "both literal as well as figurative. The literal, you can see -- the partitions, the carpeting, all these matters which will become the rooms of the Cabinet. As for the figurative... well. You will also see."

The Prefect snapped his fingers at the tall workman, who raised his head. His eyes were a piercing blue, meeting Javert's gaze intently and almost insubordinately.

Javert looked back at M. Chabouillet for an explanation.

M. le Secretaire smiled warmly and held out his hand. "Come, Javert," he said, and as Javert crossed the room to stand with his patron he felt the familiar rush of warmth and satisfaction at readying himself to be of service. "M. le Préfet's figurative _Cabinet particulier_ is to comprise various intimate secretaries, which his offices will employ and which the Secretariat will share. I have been asked to participate in the selection process, and I believe we have fixed ourselves on M. Nabon Devaux as one of our candidates.” 

From his vantage point at M. Chabouillet's side, Javert looked M. Nabon Devaux up and down. He was a young man, close to the same age as the foppish M. Nay, but built more broadly, deep in the chest and shoulders. He wore his russet hair long and wavy, sideburns shading to whiskers; his coat was a much more appropriate shade of blue, and despite its lack of fashionable peplum it displayed the cant of his hips rather attractively. He still wore his hat, which looked like it was made of silk, but one could not expect the highest standards in all matters -- the young man's attire seemed for the most part unobjectionable.

“His first name is Jules, the same as M. Nay’s,” M. Chabouillet remarked. “That is convenient, is it not?” "

Jules Nabon Devaux continued to stare at Javert, in a manner that was not entirely unobjectionable. Javert experienced stirrings of annoyance, together with other types of stirring. However, it would not do for Javert to chastise the lad without permission, and so the irreproachable Inspector held himself back.

M. Chabouillet continued, "Now, the scope of duties of these confidential secretaries is the subject of some debate... M. Gisquet's work and social schedule requires careful attention, and also the supervision of the careers of, and social engagements with, M. le Préfet's protégés. At the same time, it is suggested that as part of the Cabinet’s duties, the secretaries are also to assist our Secretariat with its administrative matters, and assist with my own protégés.”

Javert digested this. It was not his place to make queries of his superiors, but his patron’s warm, approving regard seemed an invitation to discuss this further. “Sir, does this mean that the Cabinet would also supervise M. le Secretaire’s protégés, which would include… myself?” 

An amused smile crossed M. Chabouillet’s sensual lips. “What, have these boys supervise your career, Javert? No, that would not be seemly, and is not my intent.”

“I am gratified to hear it,” Javert said, with a withering glare at Nabon Devaux, who had the decency to look down. The submissive curve of his neck beneath the hat and hair was pliant and commendable, and definitely gave Javert pause. 

Javert continued, “Sir, I am entirely at your service and that of M. le Préfet. I pray you, command me.” 

It was M. Chabouillet’s turn to look across the room at M. Gisquet, a look of quiet vindication, and the Prefect smiled as well. 

“Your wolf-hound is well trained, Andre,” M. le Préfet said. “This pleases me. Why don’t you see if he will consent to play the role we envisage for him?”

“Very well,” M. Chabouillet said. “Javert, we desire that you take charge of discipline at the Cabinet, on behalf of the Secretariat of the Prefecture. Both M. le Préfet and I believe that the _secretaires intimes_ would profit from the example of such a devoted and upright public servant, who embraces his duties with such dedication and fervour. “

He paused, and looked meaningfully at Javert’s cane hand. “Deploying the _appropriate_ methods of discipline, of course,” he added, and Javert’s mouth went entirely dry.

“As M. le Secretaire commands,” Javert said, recovering himself quickly. A thought struck him. “Does such discipline extend to M. Nay?”

“Certainly,” M. Gisquet drawled. "He has been less than taken with the creation of this Cabinet, and it was a matter I had only acceded to for his sake. Such ingratitude requires chastisement. Besides, I would like him to accustom himself to your discipline. One cannot always attend to all matters personally, and I have found over the course of my own career that delegation is the key to effective leadership." 

He raised his voice: “Ernest! Ernest, we require your presence in here immediately.”

Javert was certain that Nay must have been eavesdropping at the door, because the blond boy entered the rooms with alacrity. His purple cravat was un-knotted, and his ridiculous hat was a touch askew. He looked at the gathered men, then at Nabon Devaux, and then back at Javert again.

“Gentlemen,” said M. le Préfet, “you know Inspector Javert as a police inspector of peerless persistence and prowess. What you may not yet know is that you will be required to address him as _Sir_.”

Nay went white; his blue eyes widened like saucers. For some reason, there was a smirk on Nabon Devaux’s curved lips.

“Now, M. Javert, please make ready six of your best,” M. le Préfet said. "Do tread gently, though, let's not leave marks on Jules' first day. Would you do the honour of selecting an appropriate instrument?"

Javert’s fierce heart swelled with wolfish ecstasy. “I will be gentle,” he said and approached the half-covered wall of hooks; he kept hold of his hat, leaned his enormous cane against the wall, and selected a slender cane with a wicked curve.

Thus armed, he approached the secretaries with a firm tread. He gestured to Nay with the slender cane. The young man made a whimpering sound and shied away from his touch like a frightened colt, backing himself up to where Nabon Devaux stood. They made a most fetching pair side by side, the spun-sugar angel in his frilly, flimsy garments and coquettish hat, and the feral redhead with his handsome, obstinate jaw and gorgeous hair.

“Coats off,” Javert said, to both young men, “then, cravats,” and they un-shouldered the respective garments, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

Javert watched for M. le Secretaire’s signal, and then said, “Now, trousers.”

Nabon Devaux complied, undressing with slow, economical movements. Silently, Javert remarked upon the fact that the young man was already half-hard, and that a member of remarkable girth and ruddy complexion was jutting from beneath his shirt and the red thatch of hair between his thighs.

Nay complied as well. He had already started crying, fat tears spilling from under his eyelashes and over his fine cheekbones. His fingers quivered over the fastenings of his taffeta breeches, but when he finally managed to loosen them and pull them down his thighs, the men could see he, too, was hardening, pinkly and prettily.

“Good,” said Javert. “Turn around. Sir requires that you kneel.”

The young men got onto their hands and knees on the polished marble floor. Nabon Devaux’s bare arse was broad and round and dusted with freckles, Nay’s was white and tender and trembling like the full moon.

Javert glanced over at his superiors. M. le Préfet had come from behind his desk to stand beside M. Chabouillet, all the better to watch the chastisement commence, and he was not particularly surprised to see both men sporting tell-tale bulges under their waistcoats. Javert himself felt the hot press of his own excitement compromise the rigid lines of his uniform trousers. This was of course only right and appropriate: his patron and his Prefect were allowing him to take his pleasure as well as his time.

“Arses in the air,” he said to the secretaries. He transferred his hat to the crook of his left arm and pulled the cane back. “You know what you can do with your hats.”

They left them _on_ , of course; Nay, sobbing, Nabon Deveau, silent and sullen and beautiful. His heart singing, Javert began to count.

_"One."_

Jules-Ernest made a tiny scream, like that of a startled rabbit, more in surprise than actual pain. Then, several moments later, the sensation set in and he let out a supplicating moan. The light cane - it was little more than a switch, and Javert had merely flicked it with his wrist, he had not used his upper arm muscles, let alone put his back into it - had already raised a red welt on his sensitive white skin.

_"Two."_

Even though Javert did use something of his powerful upper body this time, Jules remained stoic, not flinching even at the second cut of the cane. Javert could not see his face, but the stony set of his shoulders and backside spoke of an unbending pride, that someone would take great pleasure in breaking.

_"Three."_

The third cut finally knocked Jules-Ernest's frivolous hat off his head; it fluttered to the marble like a fabulous purple butterfly. He was sobbing in full flight now, golden curls a tangled mess over his shoulders, his white bottom quivering like milk pudding. Javert's three neat cuts had made red lines across it that were far more precise than the frilly shape of his peplum waistcoat above.

Javert lifted the hem of the waistcoat with the tip of the cane to shift it out of the way of his subsequent strokes.

_"Four."_

The fourth cut finally pulled a strangled gasp from Jules. A shudder racked through his body, his muscular arse. Javert could see the perspiration on the back of his neck, the sweat starting to stain the fabric of his shirt across the shoulders, under the armpits. Despite this, his posture remained correct and stiff, his silk hat stayed where it was on his head. 

Javert grinned wolfishly to himself and rolled his own shoulders, flexing the slender cane, before recommencing the count.

_"Five."_

Jules-Ernest had started to beg. "Please, please," he sobbed, the words almost unintelligible from crying. His head lolled forward on his spine, forehead almost touching the floor; his arms could barely hold him up.

His tears made wet spots on the marble, and Javert was gratified to note that there were also wet spots at a lower level, although from his vantage point he could not quite see the boy's leaking prick.

_"Six."_

Ah, finally - Jules groaned, the noise ripped from him. His strong body sagged helplessly under Javert's calibrated last stroke. The proud head bowed, the silk hat fell off, the auburn hair spilled down his back like a beautiful river of red. His freckled backside was also a very beautiful angry red.

Javert stepped backwards and to one side, his arousal a joyous song throughout his body. He looked across at his patron and the Prefect. His voice was rock-steady as he asked, "Sirs, would that be sufficient?"

"Yes," M. Gisquet said. His usually commanding, supercilious voice sounded as if it was coming from some distance away, it would seem M. le Préfet was less in possession of himself that he ordinarily was. "Excellent work, Javert. I am glad that we have placed our trust and belief in the right officer."

"Always, M. le Préfet," Javert said, fiercely. "May I have permission to stand down?"

M. Gisquet nodded, and Javert strode in a slow circle to stand in front of the secretaries. They made an even prettier picture on their knees, hatless. Ernest had managed to prop himself up a little, matted golden curls hanging over his downcast eyes, his pink prick protruding wetly beneath his waistcoat, still murmuring pleas and entreaties in a voice caught with sobs. Jules' face had turned as red as his hair, his mouth hung open and he was panting softly. There were tears on his proud cheekbones that he had finally, reluctantly shed despite himself.

"Let this be a lesson to you both," Javert said. "I trust you will in future show the proper deference to your betters, as M. le Préfet and M. le Secretaire would desire."

"Yes, Sir," Jules said, hoarsely. The fire was still in his eyes, but it was banked now, and in its place was a new, almost desperate respect. Javert looked forward to exploring this at the next permitted opportunity.

"Yes, Sir, anything you ask, I am so sorry, I will never do it again, just, for the love of God, please, I can stand no more," sobbed Jules-Ernest. He sat back on his haunches, prick bobbing in the air, and then as his painful backside came into contact with his boot-heels he squealed again. "Ahh! Oh God, it hurts so much!" he whimpered. 

Javert raised his eyebrows at M. Gisquet, who held out his hand to the crying young man.

"You did very well, my pet," M. le Préfet said, soothingly. "I was very cross with you, you showed disrespect to M. Javert, but all is now forgiven. Come here."

Ernest crawled over to where M. le Préfet stood on his hands and knees, navigating his half-rolled trousers and half-mast prick with some difficulty. He took M. Gisquet's hand and pressed it to his lips.

M. Chabouillet drawled, "You also did well, Jules, and may approach me."

As Jules began to crawl, also, M. Chabouillet looked across at Javert and smiled approvingly. "I am pleased with you, Javert. You did good work today -- you were gentle, as M. le Préfet required, yet firm. I would like you to join us on another occasion, when the works are completed and the Cabinet is properly constituted."

Javert bowed. He was not surprised or disappointed by the dismissal. After all, it was only fitting and right that his patron and his Prefect were to exercise their privilege in the Cabinet in this way, and he was grateful to have been allowed to take a first cut of pleasure from the Cabinet secretaries.

"I will see you for dinner tomorrow at our usual venue," M. Chabouillet said, warmly, over Jules' head. Jules glanced across at Javert briefly; the young man's eyes looked somewhat wistful, as if he wished that the trousers he was presently unfastening was not M. Chabouillet's, but Javert's own.

Javert smirked to himself. He could not help it if he was still in demand. After all, his hand was deft and his strict discipline was clearly most desirable. He hung the light implement back onto the wall, took up his enormous cane, and exited the Prefect's chambers, irreproachable hat under his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so the flood of Cabinetfic continues apace! I owe this chapter to Kanosite's innocent comment that M. Nay would surely _"profit from the example of such a devoted and upright public servant, who embraces his duties with such dedication and fervour"_. Also, I had originally cut before the disciplining, but Firestorm enjoys the caning and crying so, and I am helpless before her blandishments. 
> 
> For the uninitiated, the hat shenanigans are from the Brick, 3.8.xix, viz:  
>  _"Would you like my hat?" cried a voice on the threshold._  
>  _All wheeled round. It was Javert._  
>  _He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with a smile._
> 
> Plus this [cheesy Joe Cocker song, "You Can Leave Your Hat On"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOotsq4soug).
> 
> In a sign that I am clearly taking this too seriously, my thanks to Firestorm for the beta.


	4. That Which Happens at the Off-Site

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cabinet particulier enjoys a morale-boosting off-site at M. Chabouillet's bath-house.

The original idea for the Cabinet off-site had been Jules-Ernest's.

Certainly M. Gisquet would have sworn that the concept for a team-building, morale-boosting get-away from the office for the Cabinet Particulier had originated from him. But really, the dear man was so occupied with pressing matters of the Préfecture, he had very little time to consider his own creature comforts and that of the intimate secretaries that worked under him. It thus befell to no other personage than Jules-Ernest, who worked the hardest under him (in all senses of the phrase) and who knew him the most intimately, to plant the idea and make him think it was his, Gisquet's, own. The man was really most deliciously suggestible.

The venue of the off-site was also Jules-Ernest's idea: by dint of some surreptitious due diligence, he had uncovered the fact that M. Chabouillet had since 1823 owned an establishment of Public Baths at rue Vauxhall, some 30 minutes away from the Préfecture. M. Chabouillet liked nothing better than economy in office expenditure, and could not refuse the proposal for such an efficient use of related resource.

Jules-Ernest found M. Chabouillet very attractive, as it happened. Not as aristocratically handsome as M. Gisquet, of course, but his crisp silver-blond hair curled most appealingly across his brow, and his tall body wore the commanding police uniform in a way that suggested it was lean and very athletic. Jules-Ernest suppressed a shiver of excitement: whenever he had been pressed into service of M. le Secretaire, it had only been to open those severe uniform trousers and take that _entirely_ commanding prick into his mouth, with M. Chabouillet preferring to remain otherwise clothed; as such, he had never before been permitted to view M. Chabouillet in a state of deshabillé. He was very hopeful this less than satisfactory state of affairs might be remedied upon at the office bonding off-site.

Of course, an issue for decision was who the personages to be bequeathed with such an exclusive invitation. Jules Nabon Devaux, obviously, was one such personage. Certainly Nabon had his draw-backs: he was large, he was overly fond of reading, he was given to occasional outbursts, which annoyed Jules-Ernest in principle -- for if anyone was going to burst out in any way, it ought to be no other than Jules-Ernest himself, and preferably with a fanfare of some kind? 

But then Nabon was not a bad sort, really: his fondness for reading meant Jules-Ernest was required to do less of it, his largeness meant that Jules-Ernest could ask him to fetch things from the highest shelves in M. Gisquet's rooms that Jules-Ernest could not himself reach even if he stood on his tippy-toes, and while Nabon was not at all difficult to look upon he was gratifyingly less alluring both in person and in dress sense than Jules-Ernest himself, so as to be no competition at all. As such, Jules-Ernest approved of Nabon's inclusion in the off-site festivities; besides, someone might have to carry the off-site bonding equipment from the Cabinet Particulier.

Jules-Ernest drew the line at inviting Pinel, the new hire from Toulouse. Pinel was younger than Jules-Ernest, disturbingly angel-faced and dark-haired; he fluttered even more than Jules-Ernest and was less able to deal with paperwork. No, there was no reason to ask the new boy to attend. In any case, someone was required to man the desks of the Cabinet particulier; it would not do for the entire office administration to shut down for the afternoon. The Cabinet did vital work in the running of the esteemed government of France -- the fact that Jules-Ernest could not at the moment articulate its exact terms of reference was neither here nor there.

And of course there was Inspector Javert. Jules-Ernest knew the man did not entirely approve of him, and while he would of course never dream of criticising his superiors, he did wonder what attraction that man posed for M. Chabouillet. The Inspector was too tall, too burly, too ill-humoured; his whiskers were as unfashionable as his hat. Still, Jules-Ernest could not deny that the man had a deft touch with the cane (dear M. Gisquet not being expected to carry out any physical chastisement with his own white hands, of course, much to Jules-Ernest's disappointment), and it was true that he, Jules-Ernest, had occasion to remark on the domineering set of Inspector Javert's muscular shoulders -- so the good inspector did have his uses. In any event, Javert was both M. Chabouillet's favourite protégé and the Cabinet's designated disciplinarian; his presence at the off-site would be seen as necessary, and Jules-Ernest was nothing if not astute in all such matters of office politics. 

The off-site was scheduled for the last Friday of the month, when criminal activity was often at its trough, or at least it ought to be, in Jules-Ernest's opinion; criminal masterminds should have the decency to take the long weekend off. 

Jules-Ernest had arranged for himself and Nabon to ride to rue Vauxhall in M. Gisquet's carriage. He knew M. Gisquet liked to be teased and entertained before physically engaging himself in play; also Nabon had lately been busying himself with filing of the Préfecture's correspondence on the city sewage system, so he had recently been going without, the poor boy. Jules-Ernest, always ready to put others' needs before his own, slid primly across the Utrecht velvet seat and onto Nabon's strong thighs and kissed his colleague delicately on the mouth.

Nabon put his arms around Jules-Ernest and kissed him back with enthusiasm but perhaps somewhat less finesse. Jules-Ernest knew their patron was watching intently; knowing what a pretty picture the two secretaries made, he ran his clever hands through Nabon's beautiful auburn hair, trailed them up and down Nabon's chest and muscular sides and then between his thighs. My, poor Nabon must really have been living like a monk for the last week, because he was hard in no time, grinding against the heel of Jules-Ernest's palm and breathing heavily against Jules-Ernest's plump lips. The dear boy was reasonably intelligent but wasn't very good at dissembling; that was one of the things Jules-Ernest found so satisfactory about him.

He pulled away before Nabon could get overly excited. He could not blame Nabon, because he, Jules-Ernest, was indeed a very exciting creature, but it would not do for his co-worker to get too worn out before the main event. Nabon made a disappointed moan when Jules-Ernest pulled off; he caught the front of Jules-Ernest's shirt and tried to chase his mouth. Jules-Ernest patted Nabon on the chest, fondly. Dear, eager boy! They would have such fun together again soon. But first, priority needed to be extended to their superiors. 

Les Bains de Chabouillet was a public bath decorated in the Roman style, which was Jules-Ernest's absolute favourite. Its facade was stone, with a collonade of pillars and a flat roof. The foyer was marble, silver-veined floor tiles outlined in gilt, plaster columns with cherubs and twining vines holding up the painted ceiling. 

M. Chabouillet had travelled ahead and was at hand to welcome them, as befitted a host. He was wearing a long-sleeved white robe edged in the purple worn by emperors known as porphyry -- Jules-Ernest was quite proud of his learning, at least in the arenas of fashion and bathhouses. His calves and feet were bare and as shapely as Jules-Ernest had imagined. 

At his elbow was Inspector Javert, almost unrecognisable without his hat and uniform, wearing a matching robe edged in dark grey, his grey-streaked hair loose around his shoulders; he also seemed to have divested himself of his habitual scowl. Well! The off-site appeared to be having its desired morale-boosting effect already. 

"Welcome to my baths," Chabouillet said. "The attendants will show you to the disrobing chamber. You will select your robes, after which we will all proceed to the tepidarium and then the hot baths." 

M. Gisquet was given a robe of porphyry, of course. Jules-Ernest selected one edged in coral, all the better to set off his pink-and-white complexion; he chose a sky-blue one for Jules Nabon, to match his fine eyes.

The attendants showed their group into the tepidarium. Its floor was warm under their bare feet. M. Chabouillet explained that it was heated by a real hypocaust or underfloor heating system in the ancient Roman way.

The tepidarium was a large central room, filled with pleasant heat, around which were placed a series of square recesses divided from one another and niches into which cunning benches were carved; from this room, three hallways branched out, leading into the various hot baths, or the cold bath that was supposedly very good for tightening the complexion. The room was decorated with reliefs in stucco, fine statues in green and white basalt, and the richest marbles and mosaics: it received its light through windows at the front and the rear. 

The party arranged themselves on the benches along the southern wall of the tepidarium, Jules-Ernest seating himself beside M. Gisquet and aligning himself so as to catch his profile in the best possible light. It was one of his noted skills. 

M. Gisquet leaned back against the wall, sighing with relief as the radiant heat of the tepidarium surrounded him, soothing his aches and pains. "How relaxing this is! What an excellent idea of mine, to get away from the office, all of us. We have all been working so hard..."

"You most of all, my Lord," Jules-Ernest said softly; he leaned over and began to knead M. Gisquet's biceps and shoulder muscles. No doubt there were massage attendants who were able to undertake these services, but he was not going to let some young fake-Roman upstart take his rightful place at his patron's side. Alas, Jules-Ernest had forgotten to tell Nabon to fetch the Cabinet equipment from the carriage, but he could always make do with his bare hands.

M. Gisquet chuckled; he reached into the opening of Jules-Ernest's robe to squeeze his bare thigh. "It is true that I was tired, before, but I confess I do feel rather more energised now, my pet."

M. Chabouillet chuckled as well. "I'm gratified to hear it, Henri. Once we have had enough of the heat, we should be ready to move on to the baths? The attendants will take our robes."

Ah, the moment Jules-Ernest had been waiting for! "Allow me, sir," he said, and M. Chabouillet smiled as he allowed himself to be assisted out of his robe by the secretaire intime (chef). Jules-Ernest ignored his patron's knowing smirk and the piercing glare of Inspector Javert: he gazed admiringly upon M. Chabouillet's bare body. It was indeed a work of art: marble flanks and elegant lines, dusted with fine silver hair, still taut and athletic in the pectorals and stomach and haunches although he had seen more winters than M. Gisquet had. His large prick, the only body part which Jules-Ernest had ever before seen unclothed, was already stiffening with the virility of a younger man.

Jules-Ernest bowed humbly and handed the robe to the attendant; he watched Nabon help M. Gisquet out of his robe. The secretaries then exchanged glances and together they approached M. Javert, who glared mightily at them and unbelted his own robe with his big hands. 

As he unshouldered the fine cotton, the secretaries stared: Javert had the powerful physique of a wrestler, thick in the neck and arms and thighs, chest hairy and broad, and he had the balls and cock of a bull in his prime. Against his will, Jules-Ernest had to admit a grudging admiration -- the man was extremely well-endowed in every respect, it was criminal to hide that compelling body under a dowdy, low-ranking policeman's uniform. Beside him he heard Nabon make a small sigh of helpless pleasure: Nabon was so obvious about his crush on the inspector; he was truly a glutton for punishment.

Together, the five of them proceeded into the caldarium, the room of the hot baths that were sunk into the ground, piscinium-style. Jules-Ernest appreciated how his own fine limbs echoed the lambent white marble on the walls and adorning the steps into the steaming water. At the water's edge were wooden washing tubs and towels and small cifers. The attendants approached with baskets containing bottles of olive oil and strigils made of bronze and silver; M. Gisquet lifted an imperious hand to Jules-Ernest, Chabouillet nodded to Nabon, and the secretaries commandeered the supplies as bidden.

"I am at your disposal, my Lord," said Jules-Ernest, and set about cleansing his patron with the oil, working the golden viscous liquid into Gisquet's refined skin and then using the silver strigil to remove the excess. He ended on his knees, anointing his patron's feet with the oil and scraping away dirt and grime.

Beside them, Jules-Ernest heard Chabouillet's sharp intake of breath. He looked sidelong at where Nabon was performing the similar oil cleansing for M. le Secretaire; save that Nabon seemed to think M. Chabouillet's groin area required particular cleansing. He dripped oil across Chabouillet's balls and carefully deployed the strigil and cloths in a most unsubtle way. Fortunately Chabouillet seemed not to mind; he was smiling, and his cock was roused and ruddy from Nabon's ministrations.

"Not quite the sanctioned method of cleansing, Jules, but pleasant nonetheless. Why don't you see if Inspector Javert requires your assistance?"

"I am washing myself," Javert muttered, but Nabon was not so easily deterred: he moved more quickly than his physical largeness would otherwise have indicated he could and began to spread oil across the good inspector's broad shoulders, where only he was tall enough to reach. He worked his way down Javert's back and then the back of his legs, first with the oil and then deploying the bronze strigil with skill, and eventually Javert's scowl had softened into a look of grudging satisfaction.

"Does that please you, Inspector?" Nabon asked, sounding suitably humble and at the same time inviting.

"It is adequate," Javert said, stoically; he had partially turned away from Jules-Ernest, but there was no mistaking the signs of interest between the inspector's powerful thighs. 

"Look at him, Javert!" Chabouillet called. He had descended the marble steps and had seated himself beside Gisquet, chest-deep in the hot waters of the caldarium. "Put the poor boy out of his misery. He is suffering mightily from his want of your regard."

Trust M. le Secretaire to speak to the heart of the matter! Jules-Ernest smirked as Nabon went as scarlet as his hair and took a step away from Javert; the tell-tale sight of his mighty suffering jutted obviously from the red hair adorning his groin. Poor Nabon looked away uncomfortably, covering his modesty with his hands.

Javert smirked too. "Is that so?" he said softly, reaching out to Nabon and taking hold of the boy's chin, forcing his gaze up. "Is your work suffering from a lack of my regard?"

Nabon swallowed visibly and did not respond. Javert shook him, not roughly, but in the way that Jules-Ernest imagine a big cat would lazily bat at its cub, or its mate. "Speak up, lad, I can't hear you, and my hearing is usually excellent."

"Come here, Ernest," M. Gisquet called; Jules-Ernest descended the steps quickly, squealing a little at the heat of the water on his bare skin. M. Gisquet stretched out his arm, and Jules-Ernest allowed himself to be settled on M. Gisquet's lap and to be pressed between Giquet and Chabouillet where they reclined together on a wide-cut step in the water. 

It was most pleasant to sit waist-deep in the buoyant water, draped across his patron's thighs. Jules-Ernest felt as delicate and as desired as a hothouse flower, sitting between the two most powerful men in the Prefecture, enjoying the hot press of their oiled bodies against his slighter one. Gisquet had passed his arm around Jules-Ernest's chest, fondling his nipples; Chabouillet placed a hand on Jules-Ernest's thigh under the water and traced lazy circles against his sensitive skin. 

Chabouillet drawled across the water, "Answer the good inspector, Jules, or I will ask him to chastise you mightily."

"Perhaps you would prefer I fucked the answer from you," Javert said, dangerously, and Nabon groaned and fell to his knees on the hot marble before the Inspector.

"M. l'Inspecteur, it is true. I have been suffering for these two months. I had resolved to never speak of it, or to let it affect my work, but if M. le Secretaire has remarked on it I must have failed."

Javert smirked; he looked across at M. Chabouillet with raised eyebrows. "You are encouraging him, M. le Secretaire?"

"Indeed, Javert. You heard the lad: he has been distracted from his duties for love of you. Besides, the rest of us desire to watch," Chabouillet said, slyly. 

"Well, then, for the sake of staff morale," Javert said, and seized hold of Nabon by the red hair and pulled Nabon's mouth onto his jutting cock. Nabon made a strangled noise and swallowed the inspector down. Javert began to fuck Nabon's mouth, thrusting slowly and lazily, Nabon groaning around the inspector's prick, his unattended-to cock bobbing in the humid air.

Chabouillet's fingers tightened on Jules-Ernest's inner thigh, squeezing painfully, and Jules-Ernest squealed in surprised pleasure. This earned him the warm, full attention of M. le Secretaire, who pinched again, harder, and Jules-Ernest moaned.

"Your pet is so responsive, Henri," Chabouillet said, archly, and trailed a fingernail down the curve of Jules-Ernest's neck. Jules-Ernest shivered under Chabouillet's touch and meaningful eyes. Maybe Nabon Devaux was not the only one with a small crush.

"He has certainly become more skilled at multi-tasking, since we agreed to establish the Cabinet," M. Gisquet agreed. "Would you like to test his new-found abilities?"

"Most gratefully," said Chabouillet, and scooped Jules-Ernest up with one lean arm into his own lap. Jules-Ernest bit back a small scream: the insistent hardness of M. Chabouillet's prick pressed against his hole, a place which that esteemed member had not, thus far, sought out.

M. Gisquet chuckled and levered himself onto the most shallow step, the one most proximate to the surface. It allowed him to lie prone in the water. With a towel and one arm pillowed under his hair, his head and shoulders breached the surface of the water, together with his rigid manhood, to which Jules-Ernest immediately bent, eager to demonstrate said abilities.

Jules-Ernest had always had a cook at his father's house and had never cooked anything in his life; he thus was uncertain whether olive oil would mix with the hot waters of the bath, but when Chabouillet reached for the bottle and then slid his fingers into the water down the cleft in Jules-Ernest's bottom and past the ridge of muscle around his hole, the digits were slippery with something other than water. Jules-Ernest couldn't squeal and service M. Gisquet at the same time, but he could wriggle; M. Chabouillet caught him around the waist and said, mock-sternly, "Hold still, lad."

"Mmm," Jules-Ernest sighed, as M. Chabouillet added a third finger, working him open with skill of long years of practice. The burning feeling was wonderful. M. Gisquet was not often given to taking Jules-Ernest in this way, and while a pet was always grateful for every opportunity to serve his master, Jules-Ernest did think about being used like this somewhat wistfully from time to time.

"Excellent work, my pet," murmured M. Gisquet, shifting in the warm waters so as to give Jules-Ernest better access. "Is Andre troubling you overly?"

"Mm," Jules-Ernest said, negatively, running his tongue up and down the thick vein in M. Gisquet's familiar, lovely prick. It was different to do this in scented, heated water, which made the movements of his hand and his tongue slicker and wetter -- different, but most enjoyable nonetheless. M. Gisquet seemed to think so, too; he tipped his head back, canted his hips up and reached down to cup Jules-Ernest's cheek.

"I'll give you trouble," M. Chabouillet drawled, and shifted his position as well as his grip on Jules-Ernest. Jules-Ernest readied himself to bear down, and very soon after he was filled to the hilt by M. Chabouillet's large, hard erection.

"Mm!" moaned Jules-Ernest, because it was good, so very good, spread out on M. Chabouillet's lap in this way, his hole stretching under the Secretary's relentless battering, the powerful thrusts striking him in that secret place that made him see little stars. He sucked harder on M. Gisquet's prick, now filled at each of his ends by the two men.

"That's right, my pet," M. Gisquet panted; his fingers tugged Jules-Ernest's hair painfully. Jules-Ernest tasted bitter pre-come and redoubled his efforts, and very soon after his patron was groaning and spending thickly down his throat.

"You are so tight," M. Chabouillet whispered in Jules-Ernest's ear; he was buried so deeply inside that he must have felt Jules-Ernest's body tremble with Gisquet's orgasm. He took Jules-Ernest's own erection in hand, squeezing with an almost-painful grip, and Jules-Ernest went entirely slack with ecstasy; forgetting himself, he moaned loudly, letting M. Gisquet's softening prick slide from his lips. The combination of the hot water, the unexpected pleasure and pain of M. Chabouillet's assault on his hole, the wringing squeeze of M. Chabouillet's hand, was making him light-headed, overwhelming him. His own orgasm stole upon him in a soft, sudden burst; he swooned, and might have fallen face first into the water were it not for M. Chabouillet's arms, holding him fast.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he heard M. Chabouillet's voice somewhere above him. "I believe our combined force was too much for our little one's multi-tasking ability," M. Chabouillet was saying.

"Nonsense. He is merely overwhelmed by this evidence of your affection for him, Andre. I have to say, I myself felt it was rather touching." M. Gisquet's voice was both ironic and fond.

Chabouillet: "I confess to being quite impressed. He was surprisingly adept at withstanding heavy use, for all that he looks like a stiff breeze would knock him over." 

"And our other prisoner of love seems similarly overwhelmed," Gisquet remarked, and this Jules-Ernest really had to see, so he forced his eyes open.

He found himself lying on the marble floor of the caldarium, wrapped in towels, his head cradled in M. Chabouillet's lap. An attendant was helping M. Gisquet towel off and another holding his robe.

Nabon was on his knees a stone's throw away. He had collapsed on his forearms, thick hair in a russet tangle over his face; he was panting, blue eyes unfocused and glazed over. Splatters of white on the damp marble floor evidenced his recent, helpless release. 

Javert was getting up from his knees behind Nabon; he patted Nabon on the arse amicably. "That was satisfactory," he said.

Nabon groaned dazedly; the wetness on his thighs could equally be from the heated water or Javert's spend. His red mouth opened but he was having some difficulty forming words. 

Javert got into his robe and belted it closed, entirely master of himself. "I trust you have managed to divest yourself of your attachment to me?" he said to Nabon. "You are once again fully able to assume your duties without further distraction?"

"Of course, Inspector," Nabon managed to choke out. "You have no fear. There will be no more distractions or inefficiencies."

What a liar, Jules-Ernest thought, though it was entirely possible that Nabon was trying to convince himself. It was however apparent, to any non-deluded observer, that, despite Javert's best efforts to enrail a love for duty back into Nabon via his prick, the confidential secretary was even more smitten than ever.

Chabouillet made a small snort that signified that he, too, was sceptical. "Pish, Javert. Sometimes the heart merely wants what it wants. You cannot fuck someone free of love of you, particularly with a performance like that." He petted Jules-Ernest's hair, absently, still addressing Javert. "Still, my protege, I would venture that you may have enhanced staff morale by at least threefold via this indulgence. You have fulfilled Nabon's dream, of course, and you made Henri and I very pleased, for never had we watched a man have sex with his younger self until today."

Javert walked over to smile down at his patron (and by extension Jules-Ernest, who was determined to stay half-swooning in Chabouillet's lap for as long as he was allowed).

"As long as I may improve the morale of the Cabinet particulier, as long as such bonding activities are regarded as essential, I will endeavour to be of service," he said, and bowed to M. Chabouillet. 

Was the upright, humourless Inspector Javert making a joke? Jules-Ernest did not know, but for the first time in their acquaintance he was actually quite keen to find out. Perhaps he would ask to take a turn during the next bonding off-site trip of the Cabinet particulier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm on the road, and of all the many things I could do with my extensive travel time and limited internet time, I choose to make more Cabinetfic? No, I have no real excuse, nor for snotty Jules-Ernest Nay POV. Beta by kissontheneck.


	5. The Official Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A matching set of official portraits of the Cabinet is commissioned.

Jules knew he had been hired on the strength of his watercolours. A boy without a father, a grandfather whom he could do without, with a good Parisian name and no good money or any money at all -- a boy like that, a boy like him, knew how the world worked.

His grandfather had wanted him to enlist in the army. "Strong lad like you should serve the King like your father!" Not even the prospect of distance from the old man and a hundred gorgeous young bunk-mates could make that career alluring. 

When Jules turned eighteen the old man had started to present him with an array of watercolour miniatures. These were of debutantes in ball gowns, gentleman-farmers' daughters in their Sunday best, grisettes and mademoiselles in ringlets and hats and different outfits. Jules didn't know about fashion, but he did know he had no interest in getting married. At twelve he'd stolen kisses from Philippe next door and at fourteen he had written not-very-good poems to hazel-eyed Remy and at sixteen he'd knocked boots with half of the school jeu de la crosse team as well as the cane-wielding discipline master M. Fournier. 

To get the old man off his back about military school Jules enrolled in a clerical course at the civil service college. His marks weren't very good because he'd spent too much time on extra-curricular studies. (He'd also spent too much time with M. Mercier, who taught Filing by Alphanumerics and who insisted that all students call him "M. le Professeur", although he'd let Jules call him "Daddy" after class.) It was there that he'd seen the advertisement in the Civil Service Gazette.

_The Prefecture of Police in Paris Needs You! Seeking Young Men of discretion to provide confidential secretarial service to a Rising new Cabinet within the Prefecture. Huge Opportunity for the right calibre of individuals to Service the Prefect himself. Participate in the Cut and Thrust of Justice! Resume and watercolours to be submitted to Jules-Ernest Nay, Rue de Jerusalem._

Jules thought about this seriously. He had a pretty good idea of the type of watercolours that would secure him the position. (By then, he knew many positions, and while he always tried to do his duty diligently in any configuration, the ones with him on the bottom with his arse in the air were his favourite.)

He made the right call. 

He had to interview with the Prefect, who had wanted to see if the watercolours had represented him accurately -- of course he expected such a rigorous assessment in a gentleman of such stature. He had also been assessed by the formidable Secretary of the First Bureau, and his oral skills were most kindly complimented. Perhaps at some point M. le Secretaire would allow him to call him "Daddy"; after all, a young man had certain goals in life.

And then there was the Cabinet discipline meted out by Inspector Javert, with his flowing locks and flawless stride and his even more flawless and flowing cane work. By this stage of his life Jules now knew to hold the not-very-good poems to his heart and not recite them in anyone's hearing.

Still, Ernest teased him mercilessly about his regard for the good Inspector. Jules quite liked Ernest and did not mind occasionally helping him with his work even though he knew Ernest was otherwise entirely capable. It made Ernest happy, and a happy co-worker made for a favourable office environment. 

What did not make for a favourable office environment was discord amongst his co-workers. M. Gisquet in his infinite wisdom had recently hired a young lad from Toulouse to round out their threesome. Jules hadn't seen his watercolours but Ernest had sulked about them for a day and a half so Jules assumed they were spectacular. 

Nicolas Pinel was not familiar with how the world worked in any shape or form. He believed, for instance, that virgins could attract unicorns, and because his blushing rose-coloured member had not penetrated the nether region of any lady he believed he was still a unicorn-attracting candidate (Jules supposed this might actually be technically correct). Nicolas also believed Ernest when Ernest informed him that he would be allowed overtime pay should his servicing of M. le Prefet occur after official hours (his overtime requisition vouchers were still in M. Chabouillet's in-tray). He had carefully copied out his job description in copperplate handwriting and propped it on his tidy desk so that he would be reminded of his duties every day (he had "Shine Ernest's shoes!" and "Fetch coffee for Ernest!!" written before "Servicing of M. le Prefet!!!" on the schedule). 

Poor Nicolas had even agreed he did not deserve to accompany everyone else on the recent Cabinet offsite, and instead had borne the brunt of a terrifying visit that afternoon from Casimir Perier, the stunning silver fox of a First Minister, whom all right-thinking young men would aspire to call Daddy (the poor lad was still recovering from the shock and the unresolved sexual tension). 

Even though Nicolas was so naively accommodating, Ernest still disapproved of him severely and wrote long screeds decrying his dress sense and lack of conversational abilities, which he would read to Jules during their lunch break. He once attempted to lace Nicolas' morning coffee with laxative. Fortunately Ernest's lack of meticulousness resulted in the laxative being mistakenly poured into the office inkstand, and all official communiques issued by the secretaries of the Cabinet Particulier were written that day in a lurid green.

M. Chabouillet had fortunately seen the amusing side to the ink episode and had not punished Ernest overly (to Ernest's dismay).

It was after the Christmas and New Year festivities had died down and the business of 1832 got underway that M. Gisquet got it into his head to inaugurate the Cabinet Particulier. He commissioned a set of portraits -- watercolours, oils -- from M. Lonnier of the Montparnasse Quarter. Jules suspected Ernest had put the Prefect up to it -- his blond minx of a co-worker could never pass up an opportunity to showcase his precious good looks on canvas.

Ernest had spent the run-up to the portrait sitting planning his outfits; he planned Jules' outfits too (and discarded and then planned again), which Jules found rather sweet. M. Gisquet was funding the new outfits, which gave Ernest licence to be as extravagant as he liked; he kept the tailors and couturiers and milliners along the Avenue de Champs-Elysees in alternate paroxyms of delight and terror, borrowing and then discarding clothes and hats and outfits at will. One day Ernest had staggered into the office panting terribly and carrying six hat-boxes and it transpired all the hats were for Jules to try on.

"You see the lengths I go to for you, dear Jules!" Ernest announced dramatically, and Jules had to fetch him water and pat his hand until he had recovered from the physical exertion.

Nicolas didn't appear to engage in any outfit stress, but with his fine-porcelain profile and raven curls and the sort of crystal blue eyes only found on unicorns, he would look like a Renaissance saint in any attire. M. Gisquet's tailor rhapsodised about his narrow waist; the milliner designed a special hat just for him. It just made Ernest sulk even more, but he didn't seem to be able to do anything about it.

  


***

  


The day of the first sitting arrived. M. Lonnier was scheduled to attend at the Cabinet first thing in the morning so as to catch the best light. 

Jules was on hand to greet their guest when he arrived. This was because he had slept over at the Cabinet the night before, as had become a habit with him. The revamped Cabinet had two rooms, which joined to M. Gisquet's chambers by a short corridor. There was an outer room with two beds, and a vast inner chamber for play. 

Jules had semi-permanently commandeered one of the beds -- he seemed to get along better with his grandfather the less interaction they had, and although he was fond of his mother and his five little sisters the old family apartment at Rue de l'Ouest was too cramped and filled with little-sister toys instead of the big-boy toys and opportunities for the sort of play that a man like Jules enjoyed. Six weeks ago, Louise had found amongst Jules' things a string of anal beads which had been given to Jules by M. Mercier, and had put it around her little neck proudly, and since that time Jules kept his personal items in a chest in the Cabinet Particulier where there was nobody on hand to unwittingly corrupt except for that precious unicorn M. Pinel.

That boy arrived that morning on the dot as he always did, dressed angelically in simple dove grey. He bowed to Jules and then to M. Lonnier, looking flustered. "Oh, Monsieur! You are early! Thank you for coming. We are truly honoured to make your acquaintance!"

M. Lonnier looked a little startled by this gushing, though really this was how Nicolas reacted to everyone from the Prefect himself to the Prefecture chimney sweep. "I thank you?" he said. "M. Nabon, where did the Prefect want us to set up?"

Jules had no idea, but fortunately Ernest chose that time to burst into the offices, carrying a trunk and wearing an outfit that seemed to be comprised entirely of different shades of pink (that is to say light and dark pink and pink that was nearly red). Jules looked down: Ernest had even procured rose-coloured shoes from somewhere. Girl babies must have been deprived of clothing in their traditional colour while menswear couturiers all along the Avenue de Champs-Elysees put out emergency summonses for cloth in that gentle hue.

"Jules, I thought I asked you to wear the sky blue jacket, not the dark blue one, and the peacock cravat! Be a dear and change your clothing, if you please?" 

Ernest switched gears, set the trunk down, and held out one pink-gloved hand to the portrait artist. "M. Lonnier, such a pleasure. I'm Jules-Ernest Nay, the Prefect's secretaire intime. M. Gisquet would like two portraits: one in his main office, into which I will show you, and the interior office which we will move to when you are done."

"Thank you," M. Lonnier said, no doubt wondering whether his paintbox contained a sufficient amount of pink paint, and he and his assistant allowed Ernest to usher them into the Prefect's rooms with their easel and boxes and other tools of trade. Jules sighed and went to change into the sky blue jacket.

  


***

  


The pose selected for them by M. Lonnier was as follows: M. Gisquet behind his mahogony desk, the bright window behind him enhancing his aura of ultimate authority, M. Chabouillet at his right, the secretaries ranged on his left.

The actual portrait sitting process was most uneventful. Jules might consider it boring, were it not for the sight of Inspector Javert in his dashing dress uniform complete with sword belt. Navy wool stretched across his broad frame, the longer tails of his formal jacket framed his meaty thighs, brass buttons bisected his impressive chest, the cornered hat with its white cocarde rode on his proud head. This was similar to the attire as the inspector had worn the first time Jules had set eyes on him, that first day he had subjected Jules to his sweet, strict discipline. Javert's one concession to Formal Portrait Day was the scarlet ribbon that held back his thick dark hair. 

Javert stood at protective attention at his patron's elbow. M. Chabouillet was also wearing his full dress uniform, gold braid decorating his shoulders, almost as tall and imposing a figure as Javert. His gold-topped cane was clasped firmly at his side. When M. Lonnier called for breaks in the posing, he brushed his free hand possessively against Javert's.

"Stop staring, you're ruining the picture!" Ernest hissed; he gave Jules a little dig in the ribs. Jules belatedly realised he had broken the designated pose so as to better look at what was happening on the other side of M. Gisquet's desk. He resumed his pose beside Ernest, who had placed himself closest to the desk and to the flattering lighting of the window.

On the other side of Jules, Nicolas stood patiently. He did not need proximity to the window to look like he was in an old style painting, all dark curls and big blue eyes and porcelain skin that looked like it was lit from within. 

Ernest saw Jules was looking; his rosebud mouth pulled downwards in a pout of unhappiness and he reached proprietorially for Jules' hand. Jules grinned and squeezed. 

The Cabinet broke for lunch, which Ernest had managed to get M. Gisquet's personal chef to cook for everyone and for the footmen to bring to the offices. 

Mme. Gisquet accompanied the delivery of the covered dishes from the Gisquet kitchens. It was unusual to have a woman in the halls of the Prefecture, and she was a formidable-looking woman, very beautiful, blonde and slender and perfectly coiffured, dressed in heavily embroidered velvet and brocade. Although she was not old -- she was younger than Jules' still-handsome mother, around the same age as the aristocratic Prefect -- she carried with her a slender cane of polished wood, topped with a glass ball that contained swirling Venetian colours.

"I hope you boys are enjoying yourselves," she said, archly. "M. Nay, your ensemble is very fetching! M. Devaux --" Jules bowed hastily, "-- you look in the pink of health. And M. Pinel ...." Her dark blue gaze took the angel in from head to toe, appreciatively, before she swung away to address her husband. "I have also fetched you four good bottles of Lafitte from the cellars," she announced. "Do not drink it all yourself, Henri. The boys need their strength, as do Andre and the good Inspector."

M. Gisquet obediently had the bottles opened, a particularly good year as Madame had said -- Jules was familiar with wine, thanks to his grandfather, it was probably the only thing the old man really knew about -- and when the afternoon sitting resumed the gentlemen all became progressively merrier from the drink: M. Gisquet dandled Ernest on his knee during the breaks, M. Chabouillet put his arm around Javert on the initial pretext of adjusting his sword-belt and then for no pretext at all.

After no more than a glass of wine, Nicolas Pinel started casting shy and a little hazy looks at Jules, and after his third he was gazing at Jules as if he was the Blessed Saint Sebastian himself. "You know, you are so kind," he said to Jules. "You have been so good to me, M. Nabon Devaux! I am so grateful."

Bless, the strong wine in such copious amounts had gone to Nicolas' angelic head. Jules patted the lad's shoulder. "I thought we'd agreed you would call me Jules," he said. "And it is because you are a nice person, Nicolas."

"Oh! I am not, at all. I am such a foolish boy. I know very very little, M. Nabon, I mean, Jules, and everyone has been so kind and patient with me and with everything that I do not know!"

Nicolas had wound his slender fingers into Jules' sky-blue lapels, all the better to stare earnestly into Jules' face. Jules put his arm around Nicolas' slender waist, just to steady him, of course.

"The gentlemen here would be kind," Jules said, "but that is provided you obey the instructions and do your work as best you can." Nicolas' dark lashes quivered, and a sense of concern stole up on Jules, who continued, awkwardly, "Also, there are men in this world, even in Paris, who would not be kind. You cannot be this trusting with everyone, you understand?"

Nicolas' eyes went wide as china saucers. "B-but how would I know who to trust?" he wanted to know. He clung to Jules with white-knuckled hands; his body trembled against Jules'.

"Hush," Jules said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "There's nothing to fear, Nicolas. I will protect you." Nicolas looked hopefully up at him, blinking, and Jules kissed him in what he also hoped was a reassuring manner.

Nicolas seemed to require a good deal of reassurance; his arms went around Jules' neck and Jules pulled him closer. It was some time before they broke apart, and Jules discovered that his breathing was unsteady and his cravat had come undone.

He also discovered that everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and had started watching the both of them intently -- the Prefect and the Secretary with indulgent looks, M. Lonnier with open-mouthed embarrassment, Inspector Javert with an entirely neutral expression. Ernest, of course, had turned pink with fury.

"I do believe we should end the day's session, Henri, the lads have had more than enough to drink," M. Chabouillet drawled.

"What an excellent idea, Andre. M. Lonnier, we will see you back here to-morrow," M. Gisquet said, and deposited Ernest on his feet in order to extend several napoleons to the painter for the day's expenses. M. Lonnier muttered his thanks and fled the room.

"I am sorry for interrupting the proceedings," Jules said hesitantly to M. Chabouillet. Nicolas still hung around his neck, a warm, pliant weight, a look of tousled bliss on his face.

"Not at all, I am sure the circumstances were difficult to resist," M. Chabouillet said, smiling, and M. Gisquet said, holding out his hand, "Indeed. Why don't you relinquish your burden to me, Jules, and I will attempt to persuade our newest hire that the Prefecture is the safest place in the world."

Jules walked Nicolas across to the Prefect and deposited him bodily onto M. Gisquet's lap. Then Ernest stalked over and grabbed hold of Jules by the loosened cravat and kissed him aggressively.

"Ernest ..."

"You are not," Ernest said, between kisses, "not, not to randomly bestow your favours on the new boy, or anyone new, not without consulting me, do you understand?"

Jules did not understand why Ernest was this cross. He did not think Ernest was in love with him; if anything, his colleague had the biggest crush on his patron, and perhaps an also sizeable crush on M. le Secretaire. But probably Ernest was just put out that other people might want to kiss persons who were not Ernest. 

Jules didn't mind; he quite enjoyed possessive Ernest, who only kissed with tongue when he was jealous.

"Promise me!" Ernest moaned.

"Yes, all right, do not be upset," Jules murmured, kissing back. He was getting a lot of practice at being reassuring today, that was for sure. 

Ernest pulled off triumphantly once he had extracted this undertaking from Jules, but soon realised with some dismay that nobody was watching them.

Instead, M. Gisquet was allowing Nicolas to be comforted upon his shoulder while he coaxed the dove-grey garments from the lad's comely body, and M. Chabouillet was finding comfort in his Inspector's familiar arms.

Ernest grabbed Jules by the hand and approached the Prefect's desk, noisily stomping his pink shoes. "We are at your disposal, my lord," he announced. Jules had no idea what Ernest meant for the both of them to do and suspected Ernest did not either -- help Ernest pull Nicolas off M. le Prefet and replace Nicolas with Ernest instead? Hold Nicolas down and spread his legs while M. Gisquet ravaged his arse? -- but he readied himself to spring into action in case Ernest needed either to be helped or to be saved from himself.

M. Gisquet looked up at his secretaires intimes and smiled as if the sight gave him pleasure. It probably did: jealous Ernest was quite fetching in his disarray, and his lovers always told Jules he looked the better after having been thoroughly kissed. "Indeed," the Prefect said. "I believe it is time to repair to the Salle du Cabinet Particulier."

  


***

  


Jules was tasked to convey Nicolas Pinel, loose-limbed and dreamy and attempting to climb into Jules' embroidered blue waistcoat, to the Salle. M. Gisquet had removed his outer garments and shoes, and the boy's firm limbs and delicate skin were revealed in his pristine white shirt and drawers. Although the polished floors of M. Gisquet's office and the Cabinet were strewn with carpets, and the rooms were warm, after Nicolas took a few steps in his stockinged feet Jules swept him up into his arms.

M. Chabouillet made an approving sound at this gesture of gallantry and strength. Holding Javert by the hand, he led the way through the bedchamber and into the Cabinet Particulier.

Jules deposited Nicolas on the day bed beside the wall of restraints and looked to M. Gisquet for further instruction. 

"This afternoon I would like us to select and use the implements we wish to bring to our informal portrait," M. Gisquet said. "And for our dear Nicolas, I would like him to learn about trust. Jules, please ask him which restraints he would prefer as he watches us."

Nicolas looked trustingly up at Jules, who found himself running a finger down the curve of the lad's cheek. "You heard M. le Prefet. He would like to secure you so that you do not harm yourself. He is being gracious as to allow you to choose."

"The soft ones, please," Nicolas said, and Jules fastened the velvet ribbons around his slender wrists.

When Jules was done, he turned around to find that Ernest was on his knees and holding out the Prefect's wicked curved leather whip to M. Gisquet.

"What a good choice, my pet," M. Gisquet said softly. He unshouldered his jacket and hung it up on his designated hook by the door. Then he took up the only item in the entire room that was remotely pink: fur-lined ribbons in a dark berry colour that were separated by a metal rod.

"Your choice does me too much honour!" Ernest gasped, his voice rising by half an octave. "Do I have your permission to undress?"

"You do," M. Gisquet said, and Ernest began to struggle out of his clothes. "Now, think on this: have you, my pet, been as kind to our dear Nicolas as you ought? He is an innocent lamb, new to our worldly ways -- have you been the guiding older brother and teacher that you should have been to him since he joined our happy band?"

"No," Ernest confessed. He looked up at all of them, bare save for his drawers, delectably pale in a rumpled sea of strewn pink silk. "I have not. I have failed and deserve your chastisement, my lord."

"And I will myself deliver it," M. Gisquet said grandly. He took up the whip. Ernest scrambled to his feet in order to try to secure the berry-coloured ribbons around his legs, and Jules went to help him. 

Jules could feel how excited Ernest was that M. Gisquet was taking a personal hand in his discipline; his friend was trembling like a cornered rabbit. But Jules' attention could not help straying to the Inspector who usually meted out that discipline, who would might feel somewhat supplanted on this occasion.

"It looks like Henri has given you a reprieve from your usual duties," M. Chabouillet remarked to his protégé, slyly.

"Indeed," Javert said softly. "What would you have me do with my time, Sir?"

"Perhaps you might select an implement for me to bring to our portrait, my protégé?"

Javert took a slow step toward his patron until they were standing chest to chest. "Apart from your cane? Perhaps you would consider the discipline that you placed upon me two days ago after our time here in the Cabinet."

M. Chabouillet's stern face relaxed into a broad, pleased smile. "I am glad you are enjoying it, Javert," he said. He reached out to cup the Inspector's groin, and Javert made small noise of want that went straight to Jules' own crotch.

"To feel your hand upon me throughout the day? It is an honour. It is also quite pleasurable," Javert said, thickly, as M. Chabouillet began to unbuckle his sword belt and open his trousers.

"The cravat too, Jules, if you please," M. Gisquet said, recalling Jules to himself with a gesture. Jules obeyed, retrieving Ernest's blush-coloured silk cravat and securing it around Ernest's similarly-coloured mouth.

"Are you comfortable?" Jules asked, and Ernest nodded, his blue-green eyes very wide above the gag.

Jules petted Ernest on the cheek, and returned his attention to M. Chabouillet and his Inspector. The men were kissing now, hungrily, with an abandon that Jules had never witnessed from the strict, grim Secretary of the First Bureau and his entirely stoic Inspector. Their bodies were pressed together, M. Chabouillet still fully clothed save for his jacket, Javert in his shirtsleeves and stockinged feet. As Javert positioned his arms more tightly around M. Chabouillet's shoulders and the Secretary lowered a hand to fondle Javert's balls, Jules caught a glimpse of the item of discipline which Javert's patron had placed upon him. 

It looked like a woman's bracelet, gold beneath the thick thatch of dark hair, clasped tightly just above Javert's heavy balls around the root of his member. As Javert's shaft began to harden so the metal clasped more closely, the mighty prick that Jules remembered so well only roused to its partial size.

"So efficacious," M. Chabouillet murmured between kisses, keeping his hand in place possessively. 

Javert's eyes were closed, he ground himself against his patron's hand. Jules felt his own throat close with want at the Inspector's helpless desire. "...And what would you have me bring?" Javert asked his patron at last, between his teeth.

"I have been considering this," M. Chabouillet murmured, "and what I believe I would like is to feel your office-issued manacles upon my wrists."

Javert opened his eyes and looked searchingly at his patron. "Out of all the toys at your disposal here in the Cabinet? These are what you would wish?"

"I do. It is because they are not a toy, and they are entirely at your disposal," M. Chabouillet said, softly.

Javert bent to retrieve the thick black metal cuffs from his sword-belt, and, straightening again, captured his patron's mouth in a hard kiss.

Ernest squirmed meaningfully under Jules' hands, and Jules returned to himself just in time to wiggle out of the way of M. Gisquet's lash.

Then Jules' jaw fell open, for M. Gisquet was a master with the whip. A look of intense concentration, a minute flick of the white wrist, and the leather flexed and sang as if it were alive. It soared through the air, a thing of beauty; it landed upon Ernest's buttocks like a sigh. There was a hush in the room as it fell away onto the ground, and then Ernest gave a belated, strangled scream through the gag. Jules wondered if the masterful stroke of the whip had been too much for his friend's delicate constitution.

"Did you like that, my pet?"

"... _More_ ," Ernest sobbed through the silk. 

Jules hid his grin. Clearly nothing was too much if it was M. Gisquet's hand that carried it out.

Nor Inspector Javert's, as it seemed. M. Chabouillet was pressed against a wall that had been thickly padded with Utrecht velvet. A policeman's rude irons were clasped about his wrists, which were pinioned behind him. He still wore his waistcoat and uniform shirt and his air of authority, which contrasted most deliciously with the exposed line of his chin as he leaned against the wall and the uniform trousers that were pooled around his ankles. 

Kneeling between his thighs was Javert. He had his big hands on his patron's hips and had taken M. Chabouillet into his mouth. As he sucked, Jules could see his painfully half-hard prick hanging below the hem of his shirt, still trapped in M. Chabouillet's implacable ring of gold. 

M. Chabouillet was also trapped, but in a way that did not impede his hardness. He struggled uselessly against his metal bonds. The impressive erection that Jules ached to kiss and call _Daddy's_ looked as if it was going to burst, pistoning in and out of Javert's patient mouth. 

"You are incredible," M. Chabouillet muttered, hoarse and undone, "I cannot free myself, I am entirely at your disposal," and he put his head back, fighting for control; there was a frantic sound of iron scraping against iron, and an incredibly filthy barracks curse that Jules did not know M. Chabouillet was familiar with. In response Javert redoubled his efforts, and shortly after M. Chabouillet groaned and the struggle went out of him as he orgasmed helplessly into Javert's mouth. 

The sounds of M. Chabouillet's harsh breathing were eclipsed by Ernest's sobs. Three calibrated lines of red marked Ernest's lovely white arse, the cheeks spread by the berry-coloured ribbons tied at his knees, held apart by the metal bar. Ernest clung to one of the ropes on the wall of restraints, the cravat between his lips wet with his tears.

"Are you ready for me, pet?" M. Gisquet asked warmly. He set aside the whip, shrugged out of his waistcoat, unfastened his sleeves and opened his own trousers.

Ernest bobbed his head frantically. M. Gisquet looked at Jules, who belatedly approached with the bottle of oil that the Prefect preferred. It smelled of roses; the office gossip was that Mme. Gisquet made it herself from the best of the June roses in their rose garden.

M. Gisquet applied the oil to his impressive girth; he then turned to the day bed and addressed its occupant. 

"Nicolas, are you attending this as well?"

"Yes, Monsieur," came the soft-voiced reply. Jules peered over: the lad was compliantly slack in his bonds, watching them all intently, not even attempting to touch the rosy member that stood at attention between his creamy thighs.

"Good. Do observe: a good master will always be concerned for his pet's comfort, as I am being here. Particularly if the pet has just been chastised, or is inexperienced, much oil may be deployed to ease the needful passage. Like so."

M. Gisquet demonstrated. Ernest muttered something through the gag that sounded remarkably like, "Do get on with it," and with a chuckle the Prefect took his position with one swift stroke.

As Ernest squealed and writhed, M. Gisquet patted his shoulder soothingly. "I know you were ready, my pet," he said; to Nicolas, he said, "A good master would ordinarily engage in some preparation also, save that Jules-Ernest here is not inexperienced in these matters and prefers that his lord strikes to the heart when he can."

"I am most experienced!" Ernest said proudly around his gag. Jules snorted in agreement, M. Gisquet patted Ernest's shoulder again, Nicholas Pinel looked on open-mouthed as if he wanted to take notes. 

"Ah, you see what an experienced pet can do, my boy?" M. Gisquet enquired, beginning to thrust. "He would have responded to his master's gentle discipline, he would have become hard and wanting from the honour of bending to his lord's whip alone." Ernest made a muffled sound, and M. Gisquet picked up the pace, driving into that white arse in a punishing rhythm that made Jules bite his own fist. 

Breathing more quickly, the Prefect continued, "He would keep himself slack even where his lord does not use him as frequently as he ought, by his own hand if necessary, only giving himself to those superiors whom his master directs, waiting on the time when finally, finally, his lord bestows him with the gift of his desires, the gift of his rampant pride, and takes his pet as fiercely and savagely as in his dreams --" 

Ernest shrieked through the gag, and bucked against his bonds, and released all over the wooden floor. 

"...and the pet is overcome without even his master's hand," M. le Prefet panted. Jules saw he had released as well, and was quick to hand with the cloths. 

"Thank you, Jules," M. Gisquet said. Jules went to help release Ernest from the spreading device; Ernest leaned half-fainting on the day bed as well, and M. Gisquet loosed the gag himself.

"Such a good boy, Jules-Ernest. Such a sterling example for our new lamb." He addressed himself to Nicolas once more: "You have seen how a pet should do his duty, with joy and without complaint? It is this that your superiors wish for you."

"It is my pleasure, M. le Prefet," Nicolas said seriously. He looked at Ernest, reclining in a post-orgasm haze beside him, and exclaimed, "Oh, Ernest, you are so brave! And so, so _beautiful_ ," and Ernest smirked and leaned in at last.

"You are beautiful too, little one, and I am so pleased you have joined us," he announced, kissing Nicolas on the mouth.

"I am so glad everyone is getting along so well," M. Gisquet said in pleased tones. "I believe it is now the time to attend to our dear M. Pinel, if he would permit it."

"Yes, please," Nicolas said, in a voice that only shook a little. Ernest patted his shoulder comfortingly in a Prefect-like way, whispering, "Do not be afraid!"

"Andre, are you coming to play as well?" M. Gisquet called across the day bed.

"I would not miss it," M. Chabouillet assured him. "But first, I need to release my wolf-hound from his long imprisonment."

"I am happy to remain your prisoner for as long as you desire it," Javert said. A small smile rested on his mouth, which never seemed to curve save in his patron's presence. He had risen from his knees and had released M. Chabouillet from the handcuffs, standing once more at M. Chabouillet's side. 

"I know it; this is why I value you so much, Javert," M. Chabouillet said. He touched his hand to his Inspector's face for a long moment, and then reached down to unfasten the ring around Javert's balls.

When he was free, Javert took a deep, shuddering breath and then another. He placed his hand on his patron's shoulder to steady himself. Slowly his prick began to fill with blood, rising to its full size and girth, pushing out insistently from underneath his shirt.

"That feels ... Monsieur, please tell me what you wish and I will comply, as I always will."

"I would like ... why, whatever gives you pleasure," M. Chabouillet said. He smiled. "Come and help Henri and me school our newest boy if that pleases you." His smile grew more fond. "Or you could see to the pleasure of the one who still loves you, despite your efforts in the last months."

Jules held his breath. Javert nodded to his patron, gripping his shoulder once more in affection, and then he turned to the day bed.

"Nabon," he said, and held out his hand. 

Jules' heart started pounding shamefully, he could not catch his breath. He put his hand into the Inspector's large, calloused one, and found himself seized in a crushing grip. 

"Inspector, I ..."

"I wonder what you would enjoy," the Inspector mused. He hooked his arm around Jules' neck; Jules was big, but the Inspector was as tall as he was, broad and menacing, the only man in Paris who could make Jules feel physically vulnerable.

Jules tried to keep his voice steady; he was no blushing virgin, but a young man of the world. Besides, the Inspector would be rightly impatient with a bedmate who dithered and giggled like a schoolboy. "I always wanted to try the swing, Inspector."

"Is that right," Javert said. Was that a smirk on the Inspector's grim face? "Never let it be said that the Prefecture did not encourage an investigative spirit in its employees."

They looked long and hard at the mass of canvas and ropes in the southern corner of the room. This contraption was suspended at three points from the ceiling, or more precisely from a metal frame that ran across the ceiling and bracketed the walls and floor.

"I am not sure how it is to be used, but it looks exciting," Jules confessed. Javert turned them so he could throw an enquiring look at his patron, who was in the midst of choosing between the refined clips or the larger serrated ones to attach to Nicolas' delicate flesh. 

M. Chabouillet frowned. "I believe the design came from Japan. Henri saw the diagram in a write-up on the tea ceremony and rope bondage. I was not sure if M. de Lachlos would be able to re-construct it, and then there was the question about how to suspend it safely -- we had to install a metal frame into that part of the Cabinet." 

The Secretary selected a beautiful carved gold clip and attached it with precision to Nicolas' pink-brown nub; the boy let out a mewl of suprise and pleasure. M. Chabouillet thought further and remarked, "I had the requisition paperwork describe it as an experimental imprisonment device."

"Well!" Javert said, good-humouredly. "Nabon, my boy, you are a most adventurous soul indeed. If this experimental device causes you injury, let it be known the Prefecture will assume no responsibility."

"The only thing likely to cause me injury is you, Inspector," Jules said, honestly, and Javert laughed. 

"Perhaps. I would undertake to be gentle, except you might not then enjoy yourself. Come, take your clothes off before I rip them off myself and do damage to that pretty coat." 

Jules scrambled out of his portrait clothes as Javert seized hold of the ropes and pulled on them his own great strength. "Looks secure enough, although we can never be sure until we try it," the Inspector said, at length. He raised his eyebrows at Jules. "Are you ready to embark on an investigation of this device?"

"I would be honoured to test it, in the interests of imprisonment techniques in Paris," Jules said, with great dignity, or at least with as much dignity as anyone could muster while buck-naked.

"Up you get, then." Javert grasped him around the waist and boosted him into the swing as if Jules weighed barely as much as Nicolas.

Jules experienced a dizzying second of floating free, his body cradled in smooth canvas that swung from the ceiling under his weight. He fought aside the panic, knowing that if he struggled he might fling himself out of the harness, or rip the attachments from the ceiling. 

Javert gripped his arms, steadying him. "Enjoying yourself?" the Inspector inquired.

"I-it's similar to a backyard swing, like the one I had as a boy," Jules said. He had vague memories of being pushed in that swing, by a father who had later gone off to war and not returned. 

"I doubt you played upon that swing as a boy as you are playing now," Javert said, acerbically. He had kept his hands on Jules' arms and now relocated one of them to squeeze Jules' heavy balls; Jules blinked memory away to focus on the Inspector's hot eyes, his lantern-jawed face.

"Pay attention," Javert told him; "I believe this is how the device is intended to work." He took hold of Jules' left ankle, lashing it with a short rope to the nearest of the long ropes connected to the ceiling. Javert restrained Jules' other ankle in the same way, so that both his legs were secured in the air, leaving the approach to his arse entirely unimpeded.

"Comfortable?" Javert asked, when he was done. He put his hands on Jules' shoulders in a gesture that would have not been gentle from anyone except Javert. "Except hopefully not too comfortable."

"I'm fine," Jules murmured. The sensation of floating, of being completely helpless and yet being cradled, the stretch of his limbs and the cool air on his arse and thighs, was like nothing he'd ever known. He'd never been harder in his whole life.

Javert drawled, "What an interesting device. It uses your weight against you. Being completely suspended, you would have little leverage with which to break free. If I were to tie your hands above your head, you would be entirely pinioned." He leaned forward, big hands squeezing Jules' biceps, the muscles in Jules' chest and sides, and finally cupping Jules' arse, spreading his buttocks roughly.

"God -- Monsieur -- yes --"

"Clever device, to have you imprisoned thus," Javert said, rubbing his thumb against the sensitive space behind Jules' balls and then teasingly against the rim of Jules' hole. Jules groaned and tried to buck against Javert's fingers and found he could not: Javert was right, the swing afforded very little leverage.

"And it also affords a very pleasant view, of you stretched out so compliantly, wholly bare and undefended ..." Javert seemed to be waiting for something. Jules realised he was expected to beg, and indeed it seemed the only thing he could do. 

"Monsieur, p-please... we should fully test the device... "

"Such dedication," said Javert approvingly. "We should indeed continue the testing process. As a treat for you, I have brought some olive oil from M. Chabouillet's baths, the same oil we used the last time we were together."

Jules remembered every hard stroke as if it were yesterday, the sensation of the oil, the loamy scent, the heat coming off the stones that was no match for the heat generated by the Inspector's powerful body. It was an even bigger gift that Javert remembered that time as well. He closed his eyes, panting, giving himself to the roughness of Javert's fingers as the Inspector used the oil and opened him up. 

Finally Javert deemed him sufficiently prepared; either that, or the Inspector had tired of listening to Jules' begging. He removed his fingers. Jules opened his eyes in time to see Javert pulling his own shirt off, revealing the broad, hairy chest and singular dark-red member that Jules still saw in his dreams.

Jules must have made a helpless sound of admiration, for Javert smiled wolfishly, and leaned in close. "...Bare, undefended, entirely at my mercy," he said, through his teeth, and thrust into Jules' unguarded opening with all his power.

Jules tried to struggle but could only writhe helplessly as Javert's massive cock stretched him wide open. It burned and burned wonderfully; he felt himself submitting totally to Javert's violent strength. Untethered, his body rocked back and forth in the swing, his unattended-to erection bobbing in the air in time with Javert's savage thrusts; he would have attended to it if he could have let go of the upper edge of the canvas, to which he clung desperately. He could do nothing save hold on, and let out whimpers in a cracked voice he did not recognise as his own. 

"Be merciful, Inspector," he managed, finally, pushed to the brink of himself. "Truly, I cannot bear any more."

In response, Javert slowed his rhythm and leaned over him. "Truly? Young people these days have very little stamina."

"It is only you," Jules said; he was so close to the edges of himself that he could no longer dissemble. Somehow with Javert's face so close to him he had the wherewithal to loose one hand and grasp the Inspector by the shoulder. "Only you, I cannot bear you; please use me and have done, because truly I cannot endure any more of this." 

"Is that so," Javert said again. He leaned down and pressed his lips to Jules' in a brief, hard kiss. "Very well, lad, I will make this quick."

He added, "But you are coming with me," and as he bore down again he took firm hold of Jules' helpless cock.

Javert was not gentle, and it was messy and frantic and indeed quick. Jules moaned; he bucked desperately into Javert's fist; the Inspector wrung his surrender from his balls and prick all over his belly and the ropes and canvas of the device.

Javert waited until Jules was done, and then released as well, panting harshly.

They swung together for long seconds, trying to catch their breath, the harness bearing both their weights. Suspended in mid-air, Jules could only put his arms around the Inspector, both fearful and thrilled at once. 

Then: "Well, it appears the device seems safe for use," said Javert, and withdrew, not ungently. He released the ankle ropes. Jules could barely move, let alone walk, and so Javert lifted him into his big arms as if Jules was a child and carried him over to the day bed. 

"I did not injure you after all," Javert remarked, as he settled Jules beside Nicolas Pinel. The lad from Toulouse lay quiescent on the bed, his pale thighs glistening with perspiration and his own release. M. Chabouillet was removing fine gold clips from his nipples, and M. Gisquet was replacing on a nearby tray a beautiful multi-coloured glass plug that had seen hard use. 

Jules found he could not speak, either; it was up to Ernest to respond to the Inspector from the other side of the bed. Holding Nicolas in his arms, he said sternly to Javert, "Do not be so sure, M. l'Inspecteur. Gods never mean to injure mortal men, but they do anyway."

Jules reached for Ernest's nearer hand, and Ernest clasped back.

  


***

  


Everyone in the Prefecture agreed the official portrait was a great triumph. The less well-disposed individuals were heard to remark that it was unusual for a government department to have such attractive young secretaries in its employ, gracing the portrait with comeliness that would not otherwise be found amidst the French civil service. (It was whispered in the corridors of power that such employ was due to the discerning eye of Henri Gisquet, or even more insidiously, to the elegant and dangerous Mme. Gisquet.)

What was not for public viewing was the unofficial portrait, which had pride of place within the Cabinet itself.

In contrast to the official portrait set in Gisquet's brightly lit offices, the unofficial portrait depicted the men in the interior room of the Cabinet, lit with small slices of window and gas-light. Shadows pooled in inky blackness at M. Gisquet's feet, throwing his handsome head into sharp relief. He wore his dark blue frock coat of power, he clasped his whip in his hand. 

At his left was M. Chabouillet, impeccable uniform jacket unbuttoned casually to reveal shirt and cravat and the breadth of his chest, his formal hat held under his cane arm. In his free hand he held a small, innocuous circle of gold. Beyond him, Inspector Javert stood powerful and implacable, broad shoulders filling that side of the portrait, uniform jacket open at the throat so his formal leather stock could be seen under the pipped collar. Rough iron manacles were clenched in his big hands. 

At their feet knelt Pinel and Nay. On the left, Nicolas was wrapped in a filmy silver robe that caught the light. Arrayed in his angelic lap were clips and pins and a large glass anal plug fashioned from coloured glass. On the right, Ernest wore a robe of pink atop his darker pink breeches. He held the metal spreader rod with its berry-coloured ribbons in one hand, and with the other he touched M. Gisquet's.

On the far right, Jules wore a sky blue robe above his blue trousers. He was surprised to see how much of his muscular flesh was on display. The wicked curves of the Cabinet swing loomed above him. His feet were bare, shoulders thrown back, one hand caught in the canvas of the swing.

Later in his career Jules would look back on this unofficial portrait of the Cabinet Particulier as commemorating the most important time of his life: his first job, his first co-workers, his first superiors worthy of the name, his first patronage. His first real service. His first love, or loves, and men he would eventually be permitted to call Daddy. 

Captured forever in oil, in the portrait it would always be January 1832, before the winds of change would sweep through the Prefecture and all of France: a more innocent time, full of sex, full of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I've run out of excuses for this flagrant Nabon POV and his daddy kink and the possibly non-period sex equipment! Except that sex and crack and sexy crack are my kryptonite, and hopefully that of the little band of Cabinet PMMLP RPF fans ;)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Office Party like it's 1831](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662467) by [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird)




End file.
